


Heroes of the Squared Circle

by PompousPickle



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wrestling, And the writer has put too much thought into everything, Banter, Gen, Humor, Non-Graphic Violence, Seriously this is just a really silly fic, Sexual Tension, Symmetra is Stephanie MacMahon, The omnics are on commentary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8574322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PompousPickle/pseuds/PompousPickle
Summary: Or "Reaper is a luchador named El Blanco and Reinhardt still wears the same singlet he wore in the 80s" In Overwatch Pro-Wrestling, people from all over the world come for their shot at glory, fame and self-fulfillment. It's never an easy battle for anyone. Who will climb to the top? And who will fall to obscurity? (The Pro-Wrestling AU that no one asked for)





	1. Recap: The Story So Far

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for checking out my silly personal project. This was born out of an obsession with Overwatch and too many sleepless nights spent watching WWE, New Japan Pro Wrestling, and Lucha Underground. I'll be adding to this intermittently but much like with all wrestling, it has no real end or beginning so feel free to ask questions and make suggestions, and ask for clarifications if need be! 
> 
> Some notes though  
> 1\. Again, this fic has no defined end or beginning. So I might be writing some prequel pieces in another series.  
> 2\. Omnics are a thing but it's left unclear if certain other non-human characters are ACTUALLY non-human or if it's just a part of their character. This is intentional.  
> 3\. Please imagine Bastion wearing a luchador mask.  
> 4\. I tried to make this story accessible to those not super familiar with pro-wrestling so I'm open to all suggestions!

The lights went up on the longest-running television series of all time. The theme music blared from every surface of the stadium as the smell of sweat and popcorn suffocated the air. The entire arena pulsed with energy that anyone could feel reverberating in their chest.

The day after Wrestlemania. The excitement of the event not yet gone from anyone’s mind, the crowd was even more lively than usual. The events of the night before itch on the back of everyone’s mind, and plays out clearly before them on the large screen above the entrance ramp.

A hero remains untouchable, as Winston defended his World Championship belt at the event. The self-proclaimed “King of the Jungle” holds onto his title for 105 days starting tonight.

Another hero falls. After a long, grueling battle, the Three Count Cowboy McCree lost his belt to Hanzo Shimada. The screen recaps the fight, showing Hanzo striking McCree right in the throat as the referee’s head is turned. No disqualification was called, and Hanzo walked away the Intercontinental champion.

And other heroes rise. Bastion remains undefeated at Wrestlemania for 9 years in a row, with no end in sight. D.Va, a young start-up, won the most important match of her life when she defeated former women’s champion Mercy in a one-on-one match.

And then there is the struggle. The suffering. Pharah with the women’s belt still firmly out of her reach, losing her chance to win it from Zarya for the second time in a row. Dreams crushed, and hope broken. But still the audience watches, waiting anxiously for the first words from the announcers. The wrestlers took deep breaths backstage, watching the ring through dirty monitors. And they all held their breath, the same question ringing in their minds:

What would happen next in the world of Overwatch Pro Wrestling?

 


	2. Hanzo: On Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo comes out to celebrate his hard-won Intercontinental Title and teach us definitions of words.

“Thank you for tuning in to another exciting episode of OPW.” Zenyatta’s voice chimed from the announce table, the mic still just a little stronger than the roar of the crowd. “Tonight we are coming to you live from a sold out stadium, after a record-breaking audience of forty-thousand people at Wrestlemania 76.”

“Yeah yeah. They already know that. The whole freaking world was watching. What we really want to know is how our new Intercontinental Champ is going to celebrate that amazing win last night.” Hal-fred Glitchbot said from Zenyatta’s right, kicking his robotic feet up onto the announce table and leaning back in his chair. The two omnic commentators glanced over their notes for the night’s show as the theme music faded away into the beating of steady drums and a humming flute, giving way to heavy guitar. Hanzo Shimada stood in the center of the ring, a shining silver belt in his left hand, and a microphone in his right.

The music died down, and the echoing jeers and cheers from the audience hushed as Hanzo raised the microphone to his mouth.

“This belt,” he said as he raised his new title above his head. “This belt is not about strength, though I certainly proved myself to be one of the strongest in this company. It is not about skill, though I clearly am more than capable in the ring.” He paused for a moment. “No. This belt, this belt that I _rightfully_ deserved, is about _honor_ ”

The crowd, all too familiar with Hanzo’s views on honor, broke out in another fit of boos. 

Hanzo was not deterred however. He held his microphone to his mouth, but another flurry of boos sounded out before he could continue to speak. He smirked just a little, straightening himself up and brushing his hand against his shoulder.

“Honor?” Zenyatta said from the commentary table. “There is nothing honorable about a punch in the throat.”

“Oh quiet,” Hal-fred threw back with a hiss. “Our new Intercontinental Champion is trying to teach us something and all you want to do is whine.”

 The crowd finally settled down enough for Hanzo to continue speaking. “Honor is doing what you have to do win. Honor is proving yourself against immeasurable odds. And honor is rising to the top as a true champion, and doing what you must to remain there, even if you do not like it.”

 “I am thinking he might need a dictionary,” Zenyatta threw in quietly.

 “And I,” Hanzo continued, paying no mind to the comments around him, “am I true champion!” He held the belt up, to a mixed reaction of enthused cheers and irritated hisses and boos. “And I _will_ bring honor back to the Intercontinental Title. I am the true heir of the Shimada Clan. The blood of legends. I have wrestling in my very veins. And I will not rest until I bring this prestige and honor into every title in th-”

 Before he could finish his impassioned speech, a low whistle rang out, followed by the first few notes of a Spanish guitar, signaling wild shouts and cheers from the crowd. And just like that, Jesse McCree stepped from behind the entrance walls and walked down to the ramp, microphone in hand.

 Hal-fred scoffed loudly. “Of course that loud-mouth cowboy just _had_ to interrupt this perfectly heartwarming moment! Hanzo was just trying to celebrate his new title!”

 McCree rolled back his shoulders and waited for the crowd to settle again. Throngs of posters with McCree’s name on it speckled the crowd. Several people wearing brightly colored “It’s High Noon” shirts shouted and leaned out from ringside in hopes of their favorite wrestler giving them a high five.

 Any other day and Jesse would. He loved his fans, and his fans loved him. But right now, he had bigger fish to fry. And the only thing he could focus on right then was the man standing in the center of that ring, looking as smug as ever and holding a belt that didn’t truly belong to him.

 “Now hold up there,” the man finally said, making his way towards the ring. “’Cause, this speech is very moving and I would like nothing more than for you to continue,” he started, hopping onto the apron and climbing into the ring. “But I’m not sure we’re speaking the same language here.”  His words were slow and drawn out, broken down syllable by syllable for Hanzo to understand. He knew full well that the man in front of him spoke fluent English, but right now he wasn’t so sure Hanzo knew what he was saying at all.

 Hanzo turned to face the man he defeated the night before. “Really?” he scoffed with a bitter laugh. “Funny, because I would argue that I can speak English better than you, you inbred Clint Eastwood wanna-”

 Once again, the champion was interrupted, both by a fit of boos and McCree holding a single finger to Hanzo’s lips. “Shhhhh,” he hushed him into the mic. “Now,” he continued, once again speaking loudly and slowly. “You see, here in America, the word ‘honor’ means things like ‘respect’ and ‘esteem’.” He paused for a second and looked out towards the audience, his speech picking up to its regular pattering pace. “I’d like to thank Miriam-Webster for that definition. Because unlike some people, I do my research before I start touting around about things I don’t got no clue about.”

 The crowd cheered once again, and Hanzo was getting visibly irritated, stepping away quickly from the former champion and whipping the microphone back up this mouth. His movements were stiff, coiled yet violent, a predator ready to strike. “And what do _you_ know about honor or respect, pray tell?”

 McCree chuckled, rolling back his shoulders and shaking his head a little sadly. He looked out towards the giant television screen that overlooked the entire arena, pointing at it casually. “Y’all can roll that tape now.”

 On cue, the tech team dimmed down the lights in the arena, letting the telescreen take over the entire stage. On it, the final clip from last night’s grueling match played.

  _The recorded voice of Zenyatta echoed around the arena, calling out McCree and Hanzo’s attacks as they viciously kicked and pulled and grabbed at each other. Finally, McCree managed to get a lift on Hanzo, pulling him over his shoulders and slamming him into the ground. The crowd went wild._

_Then McCree stood up, spreading out his legs to shoulder’s width and wiggling his fingers at his side. “He’s looking for the Deadeye!” Zenyatta called from the announce table. “McCree his looking to end this!”_

_But then Hanzo bounced up, grabbing for the referee and telling him something, pointing frantically towards the entrance ramp. He looked frenzied, desperate, and the referee turned around, allowing Hanzo to swing towards McCree, punching him right into the throat and landing him to the ground._

_By the time the referee turned back, refocusing after that momentary distraction, Hanzo had landed McCree into a pinfall, forcing the three-count and winning the belt._

The tape cut to black. The crowd broke into another fit of cheering and shouting angerly. When the lights cut back, McCree was glaring Hanzo right in the eye. Any trace of that casual, slow southern demeanor was gone, replaced only with anger and determination.

 He pulled the mic up his face one more time, his eyes hardened and the world holding hanging on the end of each word. “Now I’m going to say this nice and slow so even you can understand me: that. Wasn’t. Honor.” He took a step forward, squaring off with the Japanese man by a mere few inches. “That wasn’t respect you showed me. That wasn’t no man from a ‘legendary family’.” He laughed to himself, more in pity and spite than anything else. “No. What that was? Was _pathetic._ And I’ve seen my fair share of pathetic, desperate men. That was a man who wouldn’t know what honor was if it bit him. That was a man who has poison in his veins and thinks some shiny little belt will help purge it out.

“Well let me tell you something, _Handsoap_ ,” McCree smirked, “No one believes in your kind of honor. And you can tell yourself that you’re bringing some kind of prestige to the title all you want but at the end of the day, you gotta look at your own cheatin’ reflection in that shiny metal plate. And that’s a mark you can _never_ wash away.”

With that, McCree knew that he was inside Hanzo’s head. The man boiled over, conflicted for only a second before springing forward and landing a forearm right to the cowboy’s face, knocking the other man clean to the ground. The champion straightened himself up and looked at the man laid out before him. “I suppose you came out here looking for a rematch,” Hanzo said, trying to maintain an air of calmness despite his display of violence. “You could have simply asked, and I would have accepted. Because that’s what an honorable man would do.”

 Hanzo dropped his mic, untying his cover-up to reveal his normal wrestling attire, a one-sided top that revealed half of his chest and a sleeve of tattoos. He rolled back his shoulders and handed the championship belt off to an official. He returned his attention to McCree, holding up his hand to signify that he was ready for a match.

 “Alright!” Hal-fred finally said after a long silence from the commentators. “Looks like we’re finally going to see some action tonight! I was falling asleep here.”

 Zenyatta nodded, glancing over to McCree, who just now began to sit himself up after that fierce blow from the champion. “Indeed. The trouble is, will McCree even be able to fight after that?”

 The cowboy held his head in pain, moving his other hand down to his throat, still bruised from the night before. With a firm shake of his head- just to pull himself together- the cowboy stood up and prepared for the rematch ahead of him. He glanced at Hanzo before turning his attention over to the belt. He smiled just a little. Justice wasn’t going to dispense itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: McCree is always inexplicably damp when he comes into the ring


	3. McCree: On New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree fights for the belt he feels he never truly lost, and a face from the past decides it's time to come to the stage.

To be honest, McCree knew this was a bad idea before he even stepped into the ring. His entire body still ached from the night before, and knew that facing Hanzo tonight would only risk worsening his injuries. The man would try another cheating blow, exploiting any weakness or injury that he could find.

But it was worth it just to knock that cocky asshole down a peg. It was worth it to watch his face as he rolled back the tapes. It was worth it to hear the crowd booing at Hanzo’s every move, to hear them chanting McCree’s name.

It was worth it just for one more shot at the Intercontinental Belt.

No one ever did accuse Jesse McCree of being a sane man.

He handed his cowboy hat and sarape off to an official, only taking his eyes off the belt to look his opponent dead in the eye. He gestured to his own waist, spreading out his hands in assurance that he would get that belt. Hanzo hardly seemed deterred, merely scoffing and rolling his eyes.

“The following contest is scheduled for a one fall, for the Intercontinental Championship!” the ring-announcer called out from ringside. “In the far corner, from Santa Fe, New Mexico and weighing in at 225lbs, the Three-Count Cowboy, Jesse McCree!”

The crowd went wild, shaking their signs and chanting out his name. Despite having discarded his hat already, McCree made a hat-tipping motion to the crowd, a sign of his gratitude for their support.

“And in this corner, from Hanamura, Japan- weighing in at 213lbs, he is your Intercontinental Champion, Hanzo Shimada!”

A fit of boos mixed with excited cheers. Hanzo paid no mind towards the hecklers and non-believers, merely pulling his hands together and bowing towards both the OPW Universe and his opponent.

It was as much respect as he could muster for either of them, however. For when McCree held out his hand for a firm handshake to start the match, Hanzo merely rolled his shoulders back and chuckled. The champion raised his hand, calling for the referee to start the match.

Responding to the lack of respect McCree landed a firm kick to Hanzo’s mid-section the very instant the bell rang. This knocked the man clean off his feet and onto the mat.

“Guess ol’ Jesse really wanted that handshake,” Hal-fred said with a shrug as the two omnics watched the match before them, calling out different moves as they saw fit.

“McCree is wasting no time in taking advantage of Hanzo’s situation,” Zenyatta observed calmy. Indeed, McCree immediately leapt downwards and let out a flurry of punches and forearms onto Hanzo’s body. There was pure determination on his face. There was nothing left of that casual, laid-back southern demeanor that endeared him so much to the crowd. Now there was only a seasoned warrior, fighting in a style that could almost be described as street-brawling. Jesse was rough and ruthless, sometimes in ways that made people question his morals.

But he kept all his shots clean. And when Hanzo reached out for the bottom rope to force Jesse away, he obeyed, raising his hands and walking away. This allowed Hanzo a second to stand up. But before long, the cowboy was back on him with more forearms. He wanted nothing more than to bring back justice and honor to the Intercontinental title. Real honor. Not the self-righteous hogwash that Hanzo Shimada so proudly prattled on about.

The champion had his own answer for McCree’s onslaught of blows. He followed with a quick knee to the mid-section, bringing the cowboy down and pulling him upwards easily before throwing him back down onto Hanzo’s knee, landing squarely in the man’s back.

McCree arched his back against the ring, hissing in pain to himself before immediately working himself upwards. However, he was too slow. Hanzo grabbed him by the hair, dragging the man upward from the ground and kneeing him in the chest.

The crowd let out a mix of boos and shouts in pain as McCree once again was let go and slammed to the ground. “Of course, Hanzo is the prized student of the Shimada dojo, and is an expert in many styles of jiu-jitsu and other marital arts.” Zenyatta informed the audience as Hanzo pulled McCree into an arm drag. “But he is also an expert in Japanese archery, or _kyudo_.”

“Basically, for those of you in the audience with tiny brains,” Hal-fred filled in, “it means that Hanzo has big old archery shoulders and massive arms. And it means that the half-baked cowboy stands no chance at getting that belt back.”

However, McCree did not quite agree, kicking his way out of Hanzo’s arms and rolling the man backwards onto the mat. Hanzo was now rolled up with his shoulders down, going for a three-count. The referee’s hand hit the mat once, a loud slap to the ring that could easily promise McCree a victory. However, before his hand hit a second time, Hanzo kicked himself off the mat, resulting in a kick-out.

 The crowd, previously cheering wildly for McCree’s comeback, let out disappointed boos as McCree dusted himself off and lunged at Hanzo, throwing him back down in a rolling arm-drag before kicking the champion in the mid-section, a move that the cowboy called the “peacekeeper roll”.

The crowd cheered wildly again, but Hanzo was not so easily deterred. In the end, the crowd meant nothing to him. All that mattered was that belt. The belt that brought honor back to the Shimada clan, after years of failure in the wrestling world. He could finally be the one to restore it back to the dynasty of legends that it once was. He could be the one to erase the embarrassments and make his name shine brighter than the rest.

With his will resolved, Hanzo did a roll of his own, flipping back to his feet and bouncing off of the ropes for momentum. McCree tried to stop him with a clothesline, but Hanzo met him with full-body spear, almost as if seeing right through the other man. Once again, McCree was back down on the floor of the ring. Hanzo effortlessly turned him around and pulled him face up into inverted face-lock, adding pressure to his already injured neck.

The crowd erupted with both boos and cheers, realizing immediately what was happening. The commentators moved to the edge of their seat, rapt with attention. Hanzo smirked as he pulled backwards and up, effectively pulling McCree into a full sleeper hold. He slammed his knee into McCree’s back, adding even more pressure.

“Incredible! The Dragonstrike!” Hal-fred said in enthusiasm, ready to see McCree tap out under the pure force of Hanzo’s finishing move.

“Quite impressive,” Zenyatta agreed, not nearly as enthused. “However, if the Three Count Cowboy can make it to the bottom rope, he will force a break.”

“In the middle of the ring like that? You’re dreaming, Zen.”

Indeed, there seemed to be little way out. They were far from the ropes, and with Hanzo’s boney knee pressing into McCree’s spine, it almost seemed impossible to crawl his way forward. He tried to move forward on one arm, moving mere inches before Hanzo tugged him backwards again. With his other hand, the man tugged desperately at the champion’s arms, trying to lessen some of the pressure on his throat before he passed out. Still, he didn’t want to tap out. No, he _couldn’t_ tap out. He had to do it for the belt. He had to do it for his fans. For the OPW Universe. He couldn’t…

Hanzo threw back his own head and let out a low chuckle, before hacking out a cough and spitting downward onto McCree’s face. The crowd all let out disgusted sounds, echoing throughout the arena. Hanzo didn’t care.

Hal-fred agreed with him. “Serves that damn cowboy right, for those things he said about our champion!”

Zenyatta chose to ignore him. “More importantly, will our challenger tap out? Or will he continue to fight until breath finally leaves his lungs? At this rate, I am not sure how much longer McCree can hold.”

McCree wasn’t so sure either. He put both of his arms down, giving up on lessening Hanzo’s hold. The man would pull and spit and try to break his back and break his neck. But McCree had been fighting for Overwatch Pro-Wrestling for a long time and many have tried all these things. They have tried to break McCree in ways that no one could imagine. But they never did. His spirit never broke.

Even as the referee screamed at him to ask if he was okay. Even as the sounds of the crowd became soft and distance. Even as his eyes fluttered and breaths became short. Even as each futile crawl towards the bottom rope became weaker and weaker in purpose. He wouldn’t tap. He wouldn’t break.

He heard unfamiliar music cutting through the humming in his mind. Fast-paced techno mixed with notes of metal, the lights turning quickly to bright white spotlights rushing towards the entrance ramp. Hanzo did not stop pulling at McCree, but his grip loosened just enough for the man to breathe easier.

The commentators sat up with a start, watching a new wrestler run urgently down the ramp. More savvy fans of wrestling broke out in urgent cheers and screams, immediately recognizing the international superstar.

“Genji!” Zenyatta said with much surprise in his robotic voice, all too familiar with the man. “It’s Genji Shimada, Hanzo’s younger brother!”

The wrestler, dressed in a tight silver bodysuit outfitted with body armor along his legs and torso, immediately jumped into the ring. Without a second thought, Hanzo dropped McCree to the ground, the cowboy’s body going limp from exhaustion and lack of air.

Genji held out his hand, clearly not looking for a fight from his brother. However, Hanzo wasted no time in running for Genji, ready to take the man down. However, the younger man had quick reflexes, swiftly kicking his older brother cross the ankles and sweeping him downwards, landing him onto the ring.

Upon seeing the two brothers trade blows, the referee called for the timekeeper to end the match, sounding out the bell. The ringside announcer nodded, clearing her throat. “Your winner, by disqualification, Jesse McCree! However, still your Intercontinental Champion, Hanzo Shimada!”

The crowd cheered and booed as they saw fit, but in the end, the outcome of the match seemed unimportant. Everyone was too enraptured by the new wrestler standing in the middle of the ring, surrounded by the broken bodies of both Hanzo and McCree.

“You trained this bozo, right Zen? What the hell is he doing here?!” Hal-fred gestured to the younger Shimada. “He’s fought all over the world, sure. But is he even _signed_ to the OPW?”

Zenyatta watched his student for a long moment before answering his commentary partner. “I am not sure. If he is here, however, then the OPW has gained on the fiercest competitors I have ever seen. What I want to know, is what this means for the future of the Intercontinental belt.”

Meanwhile, the cyborg ninja stood grinning in the middle of the ring, soaking it all in. The lights, the sounds, the fans. They were all here. Everything he had imagined since he set his eyes on OPW.

The wrestler ripped off the shield that covered the top half of his face. The stadium exploded with enthusiasm, chanting out the man’s name. The man couldn’t help but smile. He lifted up the mask towards the crowd. It was a greeting. A symbol.

It was his way of saying “I am here. Genji is with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: Hanzo is also usually inexplicably damp. Genji is not.


	4. Pharah: On Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pharah gets desperate. Symmetra makes it all better. By stacking the odds completely against the woman.

Still reeling from the debut of Genji Shimada, the crowd simmered with energy, even after the commercial break had aired. Pharah knew she had a hard act to follow. But as she stood out in the middle of the ring, she knew what had to be done, what had to be said.  

She was not dressed to fight. She was wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket, all black, set over her a blue tank top. Dressed down, all things considered. Some wrestlers came to the ring to impress. Some came wearing their Sunday best. But to Pharah, fancy suits and stunning dresses were for later. They were for when she had that championship belt around her waist. For now, no other accessory would do.

“Zarya,” she said simply, waiting for the crowd to finish yelling out. Whether they were cheering for her, or cheering at the mention of the champion, she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t care. “Zarya you defended your championship belt against me last night.”

“She come out here just to state the obvious?” Hal-fred sighed irritably from the announce table.

In truth, Pharah wasn’t sure exactly how she wanted to begin. She was always great in the ring. But when she had the mic in her hand, she never knew exactly how to start. She knew the destination, but not the proper way to start the ignition. “And I wanted to thank you for giving the fight of my _life_.”

The crowd erupted in cheers once again.

“But,” Pharah said, without letting the audience settle down. “But it wasn’t _enough_ for me. You beat me down. You crushed me. You threw me across the announce table and nearly broke my entire body against the metal stairs.” She winced at the memory, her back still twinging in pain. “You were the better woman.” She sucked in a quick breath. “But I _know_ I put you through the same hell. You were between my arms, gasping in pain. You were screaming. You were _bleeding_. I am an amazing fighter. My speed and strength cannot be denied. And my dedication and diligence? They are second to very, _very_ few. One of them is my own mother. And the other…”

She paused for a moment. Her waist felt empty. She clenched her fist and thought about that belt. She thought about how much she had climbed and struggled. She thought about her mother, two time hall of famer. Shining like a star in the sky that Pharah could only attempt to reach. No matter how hard to she tried to fly up to her mother’s height, she fell flat.

“Well the other one is holding that belt,” she finished. “That belt that _I_ want. That belt that belongs to _my_ family’s legacy. That belt that I have looked upon since I was just a little girl.” Pharah felt the emotion well out of her, beginning to shake in anger. She fought with her _life_. And still it wasn’t enough. But maybe if she could get Zarya down here. Maybe…just maybe…

“And I won’t rest until I’ve dispatched you. I won’t rest until I’m second to _none._ ” The crowd cheered, screaming out Pharah’s name and waving their signs for her. “So I’m calling out to you Zarya. No, I’m _begging_ you. Come out here. Come out and fight me. Give me a rematch. Just _one. More. Time.”_

Silence.

The crowd was startlingly silent, heads turned towards the back of the ramp. Pharah stood breathless, gripping the microphone like a life support. She just wanted to look the women’s champion in the eye. She just wanted to ask for one more chance. If she could do that, then she knew she’d be able to make her legacy proud.

But Zarya’s music didn’t start playing.

There was nothing.

“Guess she’s not coming,” Zenyatta observed flatly from the commentator’s table.

Another moment passed and suddenly, the room flashed pink and gold with blaring lights. Sharp techno music started playing all around the stadium. The crowd roared with both excitement and confusion as the young upstart D.Va came out in time with her theme.

She didn’t milk the entrance. Within a few beats, the lights cut back to normal and the music cut short, leaving the young woman walking down toward the ring with her mic in hand. “Really, Pharah? _Begging_?” She sneered a little bit, ignoring any fans reaching out to high-five her. “ _Come on_. You already had your shot.” Her voice was almost a whine, a competitive spirit who wanted to get her way. “In fact, you get your chance _all_ the time. It’s not fair and it’s boring to watch the same match over and over.”

The crowd couldn’t help but cheer at that. Pharah might have been a crowd favorite, but the young Korean wrestler had a point. No one wanted to watch the same match week after week. Especially when it only resulted in the same thing: Pharah’s failure.

“It’s time to give someone else a chance at the belt,” D.va concluded with a little bounce in her step as she climbed into the ring.

Pharah couldn’t help but scoff. “And that’s _you_?” The young girl might have been right. Maybe it was time for someone else to have a shot at the belt. But that didn’t mean she was going to roll over and let a girl who had only been here two months walk all over her.

D.Va shrugged and stepped a bit closer to Pharah. “I beat a former women’s champion last night, didn’t I?” She flipped her hair over her shoulders and waited for her adoring fans to settle down in their enthusiastic cheers. She gestured towards them and then looked back towards Pharah. “I think it’s time for a new player in this game!”

Pharah pulled her mic up to her mouth and closed the space between them. She easily towered over the younger woman, staring down as D.Va met her with a defiant glare. However, as she opened her mouth, someone else spoke out.

“Ladies, please.” No music sounded as Widowmaker made her way down the ramp with a mic in hand. She didn’t need her theme playing to play up her entrance, making every step count. One foot in front of the other, she walked slowly as she spoke, making the entire arena her own runway. “You are both nothing more than half-baked little girls with delusions.” She paused for a moment before glancing over at D.Va. “Actually, it looks like one of you isn’t even half-baked. Nothing more than raw dough.”

D.Va immediately ripped her attention away from Pharah and went to the ropes. “Hey!” she shouted in protest, but Widow held her hand up to silence her, slowly climbing her way into the ring. She slid under the ropes effortlessly, with all the experience of a former women’s champion.

“Oh, _petit cochon_ , one win against an old hag does not make you a champion,” Widow laughed as the crowd booed her enthusiastically. She didn’t care, simply running her fingers through her high dark blue ponytail. The masses meant nothing to her. “You can be ruthless. I respect that. But to be a true champion? Well,” Widowmaker smirked, “I’d be more than happy to show you what it takes, as soon as I take my belt back from that overgrown flamingo.”

“You’re _not_ taking my chance away,” Pharah nearly growled. The woman in front of her had already ruined her mother’s career, years ago. She was not taking anything else.

“D.Va’s right, you know.” A fourth voice came from down the ramp as Mei made her way down. She crowd was mixed with boos and cheers. Mei didn’t care. She still waved out to the fans that she did have and gave a few friendly high-fives before continuing. The other three women in the ring stared at the shy Chinese wrestler incredulously as she walked down. It was rare to see Mei standing up for anyone, or speaking out for anything. Yet here she was, wearing a blue thank top with “A-mei-zing” sparkling across the front, gripping a mic with determination.

Mei continued as the three tried to find their words of protest. “We _do_ need a new contender for the belt. You fought well, Pharah. But it’s time for new opportunities,” she gave the most encouraging smile she could muster before turning towards Widowmaker. “And that opportunity doesn’t need to be a big… _bully_ who lost her title ages ago.”

The crowd cheered at the blow to Widowmaker, causing the other woman to snarl in disgust.

“And D.Va…” Mei struggled to find the words, crippling under the pressure of the three very dominating personalities standing in front of her. “You are very talented. And your match with Mercy was my highlight of Wrestlemania but…”

“But what?!” D.Va almost shrieked. “You think _you_ deserve a chance over _me_? You wouldn’t even be able to take on _Pharah_!”

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Pharah chimed in with an eyebrow raised.

Within seconds, the four women in the ring erupted with arguments. Words could be picked out above the sound, but behind the roar of the crowd and the aggravated shouting of the four wrestlers, it was hard to make out their exact words.

“All four of these competitors are quite determined and fierce. They all have done much to deserve a shot at the women’s title,” Zenyatta pondered from the announce table. “However, there seems no real way to solve this.”

Hal-fred only scoffed.

Suddenly, more music started playing and the crowd erupted in boos. The tune was calm but demanding, much like the woman who stepped out from behind the walls. Her shoulders were squared and her head was held high. She walked with purpose, and the sound of her high heels clacking against the ramp was nearly audible, despite the disapproving roar of the crowd.

“It’s about damn time someone came to stop this madness!” Hal-fred shouted out as the four women stopped to look at their general manager, Satya Vaswani, commonly known as “Symmetra”.

The music settled down and Symmetra stopped in her tracks right before reaching the ring, a safe distance from the women inside. She was a determined and strong woman in her own right, but she was no wrestler. Her fight was always outside the ring. To control her talent and keep the peace, and make the world of OPW a more orderly place.

“Ladies,” she finally said, her voice calm and commanding, echoing around the arena. “You fight valiantly, and last night was more than I could hope for. And I’m sure the Universe can agree with me.”

Despite the OPW Universe’s distaste for the controlling general manager, the crowd broke out in cheers, giving credit where credit was due.

“However,” she then said, holding her hand up like a teacher silently her students. “Arguing like school children is unbecoming for any wrestlers of _mine_. And if I had any mind to, I would give that champion opportunity to someone more civilized and orderly, like Sombra.”

The crowd hissed at the name. They have seen Sombra hanging around Symmetra for a month or so, as a loyal member of Symmetra’s own bodyguards, Talon. But they had yet to see her wrestle.

Widowmaker was the first to object, unable to stand the thought of becoming second place to another member of Talon. “Madame Symmetra, I hate to impose but-”

Symmetra scoffed, “No buts. You have been a good asset, Widowmaker. All of you have done well these past few weeks. Save for Mei, I have seen tremendous fighting from all of you.”

“Harsh,” Zenyatta muttered from the announce table.

Mei shrunk into herself. She knew she could perform if she were just given the fights and given the chances. But the opportunities never arose. And she knew, deep down, that this was all her fault. The Vishkar Corporation never did want to give her a chance, but she never wanted to risk speaking out against it.

“And as such,” the general manager continued, “I will allow you all to prove yourself tonight.” A pause. “Tonight, for our main event, you will all be competing in a Fatal Four Way match to determine the number 1 contender for Zarya’s belt.”

The crowd broke out in cheers, excited to see some real action between the four ladies. Symmetra smirked. They may not like her methods or personality, but in the end, the audience was just so easy to control.

“There will be no count-outs, no breaks,” she paused to look over at Widowmaker, “And no disqualifications.”

Pharah’s blood turned to ice. She knew that the opportunity sounded too good to be true. Symmetra and Widowmaker were planning something. They were _always_ planning something. And they were going to take that belt away from Zarya. And they were going to keep it from her reach again and again, just as they always did. Toying with her like a puppet on a string. She glanced over at D.Va and Mei, who both looked excited for the match, bouncing with nervous energy.

She was just going to have to try harder then. She thought about her mother, her _legacy_ , and she told herself that if she just remembered her training and remembered where she came from? She would get through this just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: someone first found the mysterious luchadora "Sombra"'s bio page while hacking the OPW website. She's been teased ever since but no one has ever seen her fight before. Fans are getting restless and threatening to boycott shows.


	5. Widowmaker: On Patience and Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Symmetra likes things a certain way: in control.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Widowmaker said as she walked into Satya’s office. She shut the door behind her, keeping her composure despite blooming frustration.

Symmetra only shrugged and penciled over the match card, which had been set the night before. She had planned a number 1 contender match for the women’s belt from the beginning. But she had not been sure who would come out to take the bait. However, now that she had her players, she could easily shift the card around accordingly. Everything as planned, just as she liked it.

“You have to understand that this is not about you, dear Amélie. You have to give the people what they want sometimes, or else the show can’t survive.”

Widowmaker snarled at the name.

“That being said,” Symmetra added with a slow smile, “I hear our dear friends in Talon have left many _interesting_ things under the stage. I have no knowledge of this, of course. But perhaps you might want to take a look for yourself. And given that the match has no disqualifications…” she trailed off, looking at the slight smile on Widowmaker’s face. It was as much of a smile as the woman ever warranted.

“I expect you to take that spot,” Symmetra concluded. “And I expect you to be holding that belt by the end of the next Pay-Per-View. I have high hopes for you, Widowmaker.”

“If you want the belts in Talon’s hands so badly,” the other woman mused, “Then why let that overgrown man with monkey DNA hold the men’s championship?”

“I believe that is none of your business. Leave Winston to me,” the manager dismissed, waving her hand to shoo the woman out of her office. “Good luck, Widowmaker. As always, I _will_ be watching.”

The other woman huffed and fixed her ponytail as she walked out the office wordlessly. That was fine. It only took one well-placed hit to take her opponent down. And in a Fatal Four Way, she could simply wait for the other girls to destroy themselves. All she needed was patience. And Widowmaker had all the patience in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: many years ago, wrestler Amelie Lacroix made a startling heel turn when she aligned with Talon and gravely injured her own husband Gerard. People started calling her the Black Widow after that, and the name "Widowmaker" was officially given later to avoid copyright issues.


	6. Winston: On Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winston talks. Roadhog disapproves. Lucio just wants to live his life.

“Ladies and gentleman and all of the OPW Universe,” Zenyatta announced. “Tonight we have a very special edition of The Beat, with our very own Lucio. Our current champion, Winston, will celebrate his 100 plus days at champion and talk about his belt. I don’t know about you, Glitchbot, but I am interested to see what the man has to say.”

The ring had quickly been carpeted and outfitted with two small stools. The lights shown blue and green around the ring as a large sign that read “The Beat” descended to hang over the squared circle.

Hal-fred didn’t seem nearly as enthused, leaning back in his chair and grunting to himself. “Sure, I’d love to hear from our champion. If we had a _real_ champion like Torbjorn. But no, that damn monkey just _had_ to keep the belt last night.”

“I believe he has the DNA of a gorilla,” Zenyatta corrected, “so technically not a monk-”

“Oh shut up Zen.”

There was no real need for Zenyatta to say anything else, because the lights shut off and Lucio’s theme exploded through the stadium speakers. A pair of light-up sneakers shuffled backwards across the entrance of the ramp and danced with quick footwork. The techno beat of the song picked up as the lights cut on with a burst. Lucio jumped up in the air before immediately touching down with a three-point landing.

The crowd nearly exploded in support of the young wrestler. He grinned and waved at the entire arena before spinning around and running backwards towards the ring, spreading his hands along the audience for high-fives along the way. He spun back once he hit the ring, bouncing into the ring with a quick flip. When he rolled towards the center, the crowd screamed out again. He threw his fist in the air in solidarity. The Universe always treated him well.

“Thank you, thank you!” Lucio said into his mic with a flourished bow. He had his own microphone, outfitted with his logo and blue and green lights. It was only fitting that the master of sound had a microphone that fit his style. He waved for the crowd to settle down. “You guys are unreal! But tonight isn’t about me, oh no.” He beamed again before bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

“No, tonight is all about the man who kicked ass and took names all _over_ the place last night. Tonight is about the man who beat the odds and took the belt and held onto it for nearly _one-hundred_ days.” The crowd picked up in their cheers. “Tonight, I am dedicating this episode of _The Beat_ to the one and only, the King of the Jungle, my man, Winston!”

Lucio pointed out towards the ramp and on perfect cue, a quick flurry of guitar and drums sounded before breaking way to fierce electric violin. The crowd shouted out as their OPW World Champion made his way down the ramp.

Though a dark mountain of a man with broad, intimidating features, Winston was wearing a tailored suit and his reading glasses. He always believed that a champion should dress like he acted: strong, imposing, but always a gentleman, and always willing to learn more. Outside of the ring, of course. When the battle raged, it was a different story.

Winston waved gleefully at the crowd as he bounded into the ring with striking speed for a man his size. He straightened out his suit and adjusted his belt so that it was nice and secure over his shoulder. Turning to Lucio, he reached out to shake his hand. However, the younger wrestler held out a fist at the same time, going for a fist bump. Winston awkwardly stumbled to return the motion, nearly missing the other man’s hand entirely.  

“Pathetic,” Hal-fred scoffed out. “And we call _that_ our champion?”

Winston paid no mind, laughing it off and perching himself onto the stool, barely fitting his entire rear end onto the small circle. Lucio jumped up onto his own stool, kicking his feet back like he owned the entire ring. He twirled his own microphone in his fingers while he waited for the music and the audience to die down. Winston could only smile and wave. He had his own charms, but Lucio was on a whole other level. He admired that about the young man. The whole arena was his dance floor, and he was the DJ, never missing a beat.

“Hey hey! Winston!” Lucio started the show, turning to the world champion of OPW. “How’s it hanging?”

“Oh uh…you know. Pretty good I guess. I just defended my championship las-” a pause as the realization dawned on him. “Right. Because of the-I get it.” 

Lucio let out a chuckle. It got him every time.

“But no no, really.” Lucio laughed it off, “Last night was _brutal_. Your back feeling okay?”

Winston appreciated the concern, but he was fine. Torbjorn did his best to break him down, but Winston just kept building himself back up. “I assure you, I am just fine. And I am 100% ready to fight the next challenge that comes along!”

The crowd cheered. Zenyatta nodded with sure approval. Hal-fred merely rolled his eyes.

“Actually I’m glad you mentioned that,” Lucio said, rocking back in his seat a little. “Because that’s what I really wanted to ask. You’ve had the championship for more than one-hundred days. You’ve beaten wrestlers from all over the world. What’s left to do? What’s next for the King of the Jungle?”

Winston only pondered for a second. In truth, he had thought about this a lot. When you were already on top of the mountain, there didn’t seem to be anything left but to defend your spot. But Winston never wanted to believe that was true. “When I was just a young ape, I would watch Overwatch Pro Wrestling religiously. Every night, I would stay up against my father’s wishes. I couldn’t get enough. The Savior Adhabu, Gerard Lacroix, and the Strike Commander himself- Jack Morrison.”

The crowd exploded at Morrison’s name. How could they not? The record-holding champion. The _uncontested_ champion. He still sold shirts. People still chanted out his name. Even after he had disappeared years ago.

“They were all my heroes. My idols,” Winston finished. “People like Torbjorn and Reinhardt? They were my stepping stones.” He paused for a second to soak in the nostalgia. “But those days are no more. I had always admired Torbjorn’s technical know-how and strategical skill. But these days? He is hot-headed, rude, and too big for his britches.”

No one could argue that.

“The days that I remember are behind us. And the time of heroes has fallen to dust.” Winston’s words were far bitterer than he wanted to admit. “But the world _needs_ those superheroes. Someone who stands for nothing but goodness and hope, in a time where hope seems lost. The world _needs_ men like Jack Morrison. And if he is never coming back? Then I will have to rise up and take that place, and be that role model.”

It was hard to dislike a man like Winston. The crowd couldn’t help but shout out in enthusiasm, chanting Winston’s name. Over and over, they called out. Winston glanced around, smiling but unsure exactly how to respond. He wanted this. He wanted to be their hero. But now that they were cheering his name, he wasn’t sure what to do.

However, before he could respond or say anything at all, he heard a loud snort come from down the ramp.

Roadhog walked down the ramp at his own pace, no entrance theme necessary. His mere presence was more than demanding enough. He clapped his hands against his microphone, slowly and sarcastically applauding the champion’s speech.

“How moving,” the man snorted out from underneath his gas mask. “Let me guess, next you’re going to save an orphan from a burning building and cure cancer.” Roadhog laughed at his own joke, a chortling and maniacal thing that sent the audience booing and hissing.

“Thank god Roadhog can see how self-obsessed this is,” Hal-fred sighed. “I mean, can you believe all the idealistic bull crap Winston is spewing? Clearly he just wants attention.”

Zenyatta did not quite agree. “This is Winston’s night. Roadhog has no place interrupting.”

“Interrupting?! He was _saving_ us from this horrible episode of that DJ’s stupid show.”

“Well well,” Lucio tried to salvage the moment by making way for the new addition to his little segment. Roadhog climbed into the ring and Lucio moved up to greet him, holding out his hand. Roadhog refused to take it, shoving his way past the young man and glaring directly at the champion.

Lucio was having none of it, still addressing his new guest.  “Pleasure to have you, Roadie! Is that new cologne? Or did you just find a way to make yourself naturally smell like piss and bacon?” Finally, the massive wrestler turned to the younger man, grunting and taking one threatening foot forward. Lucio laughed and held his hands up as he backed away. “Calm down man, it suits you! It really does.”

However, before the Roadhog could respond, Winston stepped in, closing the space between him and the other heavyweight. The two looked even more gargantuan than usual, standing next to each other, dwarfing Lucio standing immediately to the right. They were nearly eye to eye, Roadhog just barely coming up shorter, holding his head high and squaring off his shoulders. “What’re you looking at?” He grunted out.

“I’m not the one who interrupted a celebration speech,” Winston said, politeness and social niceties barely still in place. He strived to remain calm, but his face was nothing but business. He didn’t necessarily _want_ to resort to violence. He only wanted kids and adults everywhere to believe in heroes again, to refuse to give up on wrestling in the same way he refused. And if that meant putting rude, nonbelievers like Roadhog in their place? Then so be it.

“You shouldn’t be celebrating something that shouldn’t belong to you,” the other man merely stated, rolling back his neck. The audience could nearly hear the joints crack, sending a chill down even Lucio’s spine. If Winston meant business, then Roadhog was already the CEO. He was ready to fight. He was ready to kill for what he set his eyes on. He lifted up one massive hand, and pushed his meaty fingers against the belt on Winston’s shoulder. “I’m coming for that belt. There’s no such thing as heroes anymore.”

Winston bit the inside of his cheek, trying to think of something to say. Instead, he simply adjusted his glasses and raised the mic up. “Lucio, I would duck if I were you.”

On cue, the younger man ducked down low and swerved as Winston lunged himself at Roadhog, using his own belt as a weapon. He pounded the metal plate of the belt against Roadhog’s face, sending the man stumbling backwards and nearly down to the mat.

But despite that, Roadhog met with a counter, swinging his mass around and connecting a forearm to Winston’s chest. With the force of the blow, the Champion doubled over in pain and Roadhog hooked his arm around Winston’s throat, pulling him and crashing him down onto the mat in a move he called the “chain hook”.

The crowd let out a flurry of boos and cheers at the force of the blow. Roadhog slowly walked over to Winston’s body, now laying out on the ring, and picked up the belt. It wasn’t his. Not yet. But it would be. Because Roadhog got what Roadhog wanted. And what he wanted right now, was that belt.

Lucio tried to step in, perhaps to say something, perhaps just to wrap up his show. But Roadhog turned around and let out a low growl, warning the younger man not to come anywhere near him or the championship. The man obliged, backing up slowly as the crowd stared in awe at the man who might very well become the new OPW World Champion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: the story goes that Winston was a part of an experiment to combine gorilla and human DNA in order to form the perfect wrestler. This explains his gorilla-like build and facial features, and his flair for the scientific. However, many people just write this off as a stupid gimmick. These people are called "smarks" and we widely ignore them.


	7. Genji: On First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji stands present for his first backstage interview, and makes his intentions known. Perhaps not his best first step.

As the arena crew cleaned up the set from the “The Beat” and got Winston back up on his feet, various wrestlers walked around backstage. Genji closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he walked. He wondered for ages what it would be like to be back here. He wondered after years and years traveling from promotion to promotion, what it would be like to make it to the big stage. What it would be like to have a wrestling ring that he could call home, and a group of wrestlers he could call family.

Plus, unlike much of the independent circuit, OPW had catering. That was pretty nice too.

As he wandered around, he heard the soft clacking of heels rush to catch up to him. “Genji,” a calm but firm voice called out, causing the wrestler to turn immediately. A striking woman stood before him holding a microphone expectantly. She was wearing a tailored pants-suit, and her hair was pulled tightly into a bun.

Genji frowned for a second before recognition hit him. Introductions had been fast and furious before his debut, and Symmetra wasted no time before throwing the man to the wilds. “Athena, yes?” He asked to the backstage correspondent. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, pushing up his protective head plate even more than it already was.

The woman didn’t respond, instead simply closing the distance between them. “If you don’t mind, I have a few questions that everyone is dying to know.”

Genji chuckled. His first interview. He tried not to look too pleased. “Of course. Bring it on!” He glanced over, noticing the crew of cameras that had followed shortly behind the interviewer. He smiled at them, one by one.

“Your debut here at OPW and the very first thing you do is confront your brother, Hanzo Shimada. Back in Hanamura Hustle Wrestling, you and your brother had a very tumultuous history, to say the least. Are you out looking for revenge?”

Genji winced. He knew that it was going to come up, sooner or later. But he didn’t expect it to happen so soon. He should have known better before going out to immediately meet Hanzo. He knew these kinds of questions would follow. But still, something had compelled him forward. He couldn’t have stopped if he tried.

“Maybe, when I was younger, I wanted to enact some kind of vengeance. He had nearly cost me my career.” Genji couldn’t fight the bitterness that he felt remembering that night. His voice cracked just a little, as he could nearly feel his head cracking against the ring apron. He could nearly hear his brother screaming as he lifted his own brother up, slamming him down time and time again.  

“No,” Genji finally said, more to himself than to Athena. “That is not my goal now. My brother is a fine wrestler. There is no denying that. I have long since forgiven him. But until he forgives himself and moves forward, he cannot be the champion he so enjoys pretending to be.” It came off more as a scoff than intended, but his intentions were clear.

“So you wish your brother to forgive himself?”

“Of course,” Genji paused for a moment. What brother didn’t want his sibling to grow and improve? However, there was more to it than that. Watching his own brother stand up there and act like he was the savior of his family? The savior of _wrestling_? It was enough to awaken the cocky impulses that Genji had thought he laid to rest. “But my desires run deeper than that. There is more to the Shimada family than honor and gold. And there is more to me than anyone has seen yet. And I will show my brother that in due time, when I take his Intercontinental Title from him.”

Athena raised her mic to her mouth, intending to ask more. But her attention was immediately drawn to somewhere behind Genji. The wrestler frowned, wondering what it was that could take her away from the newest talent to the roster. 

Genji turned around as Athena continued to glance over his shoulder. When he turned, immediately a familiar voice greeted him. “Howdy.” McCree gave a small salute, but there was no smile on his normally jovial face. Instead, he looked over at the backstage correspondent and nodded to her. “Athena? If you will…” he said has waved his hands to send her off.

“I’m sorry bu-“ the woman started, just trying to do her job.

However, McCree was having none of it. “Genji here and me got some business to take care of. You can ask all the questions you like later, I’m sure. My friend here would be all too happy to answer.”

Athena nodded, looking reluctantly at Genji before leaving the area. One cameraman still remained, trained on the two men and broadcasting it to the large screens in the stadium. If McCree minded, he didn’t say anything.

“Jesse! It is good to see you,” Genji said warmly, giving a small smile and a traditional bow in greeting. The two had crossed paths many times in their climb towards OPW. They had spent many hours training together, and were in the same promotions several times. However, as McCree stared at him, there was little trace of familiar friendliness.

“Save it, Genji.” McCree stood with his arms crossed, chewing on something that might have been gum. “Look, I know you and I go way back. I’d even consider us friends. And I will give you that you are one hell of a wrestler. Better than your lyin’ and cheatin’ brother at least.” Genji nodded a little in agreement. He couldn’t help but let his ego be stroked a little at his friend’s words.

“But things are a little different around here,” McCree continued, “For example: you can’t just walk in and interrupt _my_ rematch for the Intercontinental Belt. And then you go and think that you can up and take it from Hanzo? I don’t know what came over you, but you have no claim over that title.” He nearly spat at that, and Genji’s instincts told him to take a step back in defense.

But Genji Shimada never backed down from anything.

“Easy now,” Genji then said, trying to sound as passive as possible. “You had your rematch. And you lost. I have every opportunit-“

“Like _hell_ I lost,” McCree nearly growled at that. “I was _inches_ from the bottom rope when you interrupted. You’re a fine man but you have no mind saying that I lost.”

“Please,” Genji couldn’t help but laugh that that. “You would have passed out if it weren’t for me saving you.” McCree opened his mouth to argue, but Genji held up his hand. “You cannot take the lesser Shimada. I doubt you’ll be able to take me.”

With that, Genji took a long breath and turned to leave. It was good to see a familiar face in such a new place. But that did not mean that Genji intended to go easy on anyone. He was going to make his mark on OPW, one way or another. And there was no better way than to prove himself against an old friend, and to take the belt from an old rival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: After Genji was released from the hospital after his brother betrayed him, he left Hanamura Hustle and went to hone his wrestling skills and fight all over the world. Word is that he is the first non-omnic graduate of Zenyatta's secret Nepalese wrestling school.


	8. Main Event: On Number One Contenders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarya just wants to watch the number one contender match but the omnics won't stop asking questions. It's a hard life, being champ. Also the ladies fight.

“Ladies and gentlemen welcome back to OPW!” Hal-fred said, all too excited to get the main event night underway. Fights had come and go, but this was the one he was waiting for. This was the one they _all_ were waiting for. “Tonight for our main event we are joined by the ever lovely, women’s champion, Zarya!”

Zarya’s music played in the background as she settled into her seat at the table. She slid on her headset and waved at the cameras with a small smile. “ _Privet_!” She was dressed down in a blazer and half-buttoned collared shirt, still presenting herself professionally despite not being in the ring that night.

After all, tonight she meets the next person to try to take the belt from her. She thought she ought to look her best.

“This match will determine the number one contender for your belt,” Zenyatta filled in for those just tuning in. “Do you have any predictions for tonight’s match?”

The woman laughed, leaning back in her chair. “All of the women are no match for me. I could see Pharah coming out on top again. But she will just do what she has always done: climb to the top only for me to knock her down. She says she just needs one more chance,” she laughed to herself at that. “I would like to see her try.”

Zenyatta turned to her, intent to ask more. But before he could, the loud techno music of D.Va’s theme filled the stadium and lights flashed all around as the young woman came out.

“The following fatal four-way is scheduled for one fall! This match will be for the women’s number one contender spot!” The ring announcer called out as D.Va flipped her hair at the top of the ramp and made her way down. She exuded confidence, pausing to slap the hands of hopeful fans and to pose in time with her music.

“First to the ring- from Busan, South Korea- the one and only Brazen D.Va!”

She made a gun with her hands, posing like she was shooting down an enemy in a video game. The crowd went wild.

Zarya only rolled her eyes.

The younger competitor jumped into the ring, moving to her corner and flashing a heart with her hands to everyone in the audience.

“D.Va of course is the youngest in the match tonight. However, you don’t see all that impressed with the young ups-”

“She is known for insulting people and playing video games on the internet,” Zarya said shortly. “She can fight, and she’s gotten lucky. But she’s nothing compared to me. End of story.”

At that, the lights faded to dark purple and sharp, harrowing music filled the air. The crowd died down as a soft, plodding melody wafted around the arena. Widowmaker stepped out, one foot in front of the other, spinning around slowly as she took in the entire atmosphere.

“Hailing from Annecy, France, she is the One-Shot Wonder, Widowmaker!”

“I would not mind defending against Widowmaker,” Zarya added, almost a quiet afterthought as the former champion milked her entrance. “She is respectable. But her best days left her when Ana left OPW.”

Widow jumped up on the turnbuckle of her corner, getting to higher ground before pointing towards her eyes and then pointing immediately at Zarya, motioning towards the belt. The women’s champion could only smirk. She liked the confidence at the very least.

Of course, for every ounce of confidence, there was also self-doubt.

“Now making her way to the ring.” The music changed over to soft electric piano, with the backing of a guitar. “From Xi’an, China, the Snow Queen herself, Mei!”

Mei walked a bit slowly to the ring, waving timidly to her fans. Many stuck their hands out, looking for a high-five, but she only waved and smiled bashfully. A small girl, perhaps about twelve, leaned over the barricade, holding out her hand. Mei walked over to her, grabbing her hand and shaking it firmly. One could just make out the sound of her saying “Thank you! I’ll do my best!” to her small fan.

Zarya wanted to scoff. She would need to bring more than her best.

“Mei hasn’t done a lot here in OPW since she debuted,” Hal-fred noted offhandedly. “I don’t know what she’s thinking, coming out here to face off against some of the best we have to offer!”

“Not having opportunity is not the same as not having skill,” Zenyatta said, his voice brimming with wisdom and patience. “And I for one look forward to seeing what the woman can do.”

And with that, the lights cut off and bright blue and gold spotlights focused on the curtain. The striking beginning of Pharah’s theme played and fog rolled in from the corners of the ramp.

The bass dropped. The lights cut on. The fog dissipated.

And Pharah was storming towards the ring with more determination than Zarya had seen in a while. She couldn’t help but smile. Pharah was a long way from taking her belt. But of all of them, she was the one who could really put up a fight for it.

Pharah nearly vaulted into the ring, propelling herself over the ropes. She landed neatly in the ring, catching herself on her knees and standing to the cheers of the crowd. And from the twinkle in her eye, she knew she wasn’t going to let them down.

“And from Giza, Egypt, the flier of the friendly skies, Pharah!”

If Hal-fred or Zenyatta said anything, it was lost on Zarya. She was staring intently at Pharah, who did not break eye contact as she stretched in her corner. She was dressed for a fight now, with a black tank top and metallic blue shorts, blue boots and yellow kneepads. All pretenses of politeness were gone. She was no longer begging for a rematch. She was going to take what she wanted and she would do it by force if she had to.

And Zarya respected that.

With that, the bell rang, breaking Pharah’s focus on Zarya and returning her attention to the ring.

The women wasted no time in attacking each other, with D.Va immediately lunging for Widowmaker. Widow scouted the younger woman’s attack and flung her back with a fierce forearm, only to be met with Pharah bounding from the ropes into a  cross body, landing the woman to the floor.

Mei was quick to get with the program, sliding in easily and grabbing for Widowmaker before Pharah could take advantage, dragging the woman down. Mei released a series of punches to Widow’s stomach, left open by the cut of her ring attire, before putting the woman into a hold.

“A good strategy from all three of these ladies,” Zenyatta noted as Mei wrapped her legs around Widowmaker’s chest and tugged ferociously at her left arm. “They have identified the biggest threat and have chosen to all work to weaken her.”

“Yeah but only one of them can win. One pinfall or submission, and it’s all over,” Hal-fred reminded his partner, without a hint of patience in his voice. “And right now Mei is wrapped around Widowmaker like a winter scarf.”

Not wanting to risk the hold going any further and resulting in an early victory, D.Va ran around from where she had been flung and slid into the ring. She pulled at Widow’s legs, freeing her from the hold and allowing her to jump onto the former champion for a pin-fall, pushing her shoulders to the ground.

“D.Va’s looking to end this early!” Hal-fred exclaimed.

“One!” The crowd shouted out alongside the referee. “Two!”

However, Mei was eager to break up the pin. She dashed forward and threw elbows onto D.Va, knocking her clean to the ground. Zarya scoffed at the display. “It was a good try for D.Va, swooping in on Mei’s work to take advantage. Perhaps with a little more ring awareness, the young gamer could actually be worth something.”

But not now, she left unsaid.

Mei had turned her attention to D.va, pulling the woman up and kneeing her in the stomach over and over. D.Va wasn’t taking the hits lying down, maneuvering around so that she could parry Mei into a few grabs of her own. She was small, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t lift with the best of them.

As the blows continued, Widowmaker saw her opportunity to roll out of the ring and get some rest before retaliating. She stood back for a moment and watched, waiting for the two women in the ring to tire each other out. She glanced around, only to see Pharah doing the same. She hissed a little, irritated that Pharah seemed just as content to bide her time and wait for her chance to strike.

Pharah bounced on her heels, watching the ring with rapt attention while D.Va bounced between the ropes for leverage, and hit Mei with a clothesline. “D.Va has been very strong this match. How would you approach defeating her if she were to become number one contender?” Zenyatta glanced over to Zarya, drumming her fingers on the table and watching intently.

“What kind of question is that?” She nearly spat. “I would take care of the small one the same as I would the rest. Now if you don’t mind, Omnic, I’m trying to watch the match.”

The crowd went wild as D.Va landed two kicks to the floored Mei. Bouncing eagerly, she glanced down at her opponent, and then towards the turnbuckle. With a sly smile, she ran to the corner of the ring and climbed to the corner, trying to get to the top rope.  

However, Pharah saw her chance, darting forward and pulling at D.Va’s ankle, dragging the girl down and bouncing her entire body off the hard turnbuckle. The young woman’s body fell to the floor outside the ring, leaving Mei completely defenseless.

Pharah wanted to apologize for the blow, but there was no time. She bounced into the ring, knowing full well that everyone’s eyes were on her. She darted towards Mei, still on the canvas and just stirring to full consciousness again. She threw herself on top of the woman, rolling her up for a clean pin.

“One!”

Pharah’s heart was racing and she prayed Mei was still damaged enough.

“Two!”

Her heart was nearly in her throat, daring to glance over at Zarya, glaring daggers at her as she pinned down the other woman.

“Th-“

The cold sting of steel fell on her back. Pharah’s breath left her lungs, her limbs going weak for a brief moment. However, that moment was enough for Mei to roll from under her, and slide her way out of the ring for much needed respite.

Pharah lurched forward, pain spreading out from her shoulder blades like wings. She felt like her skin was lit on fire. Blinking several times until she could make sense of light and color again, she forced herself to roll over.

Widowmaker was smiling above her, holding a steel chair.

No count-outs.

No disqualifications.

Widow raised the chair above her head, aiming to bring it down on Pharah again, knocking her out for sure. The adrenaline of the match ran through her like venom, coursing through her veins and pulling at her heart. Moments like this, moments right before the killing blow, they made Widowmaker feel alive.

But Pharah had just enough left in her to scramble away, narrowly missing Widow’s blow. She could feel the gust from the chair’s path hit her face, filling her lungs with air. She was still there. She was still conscious and still kicking.

Pharah could still win this. She could play dirty too.

She propped herself up on her arms, kicking out her legs and sweeping at Widow’s knees, knocking her down to Pharah’s level. Her limbs were still shaking from the blow to her back but she worked herself to her feet. The crowd shouted out, clapping their hands and screaming her name, over and over. She shouted too, letting out a pained yell. She let it all out, firing herself up and grabbing the chair from where it lay next to Widowmaker.

“And what do you say to _that_ , Zarya?” Hal-fred asked one more time.

The woman’s champion watched rapt, her voice nearly hushed as she said once again, “I’m trying to watch the match.”

Pharah unfolded the steel chair, setting it upright and placing it down. She walked over to Widow, picking the woman up by her neck, tugging at her ponytail. It wasn’t polite, and it wasn’t pretty. But neither was Widowmaker. The woman made no excuses, and no apologies. Lord knows she didn’t apologize when she put Pharah’s mother in the hospital. And so Pharah wasn’t going to apologize as she slammed the woman’s head down into the seat of the chair.

The whole crowd hissed in pain, the sound of Widow’s head bouncing off the chair echoing throughout the arena with a resounding crack. Pharah didn’t so much as wince as she held her competitor’s head up and went for a second blow.

However, Widow wasn’t out. She wasn’t done; not by a long shot. She used her hands to grab the legs of the chair, shoving the whole thing upwards and slamming the top into Pharah’s face. The younger woman stumbled backwards, letting her grip on Widow loosen. The former champion rolled to the nearest apron and slid under the rope, exiting the ring to recover.

“See now _that’s_ what we need in a champion!” Hal-Fred pointed out. “Experience. Ring-awareness. Expertise.”

“And you don’t think I have that in spades?” Zarya huffed. “She needs to rest after being simply tapped with a chair. That is nothing.”

D.Va, recovered and ready to run back into the fray, slid under the ropes to take advantage of the situation. She darted immediately for Pharah, throwing herself onto the woman’s body and pinning down her shoulders.

The referee slid in, counting “One!” along with the shocked cheers of the crowd.

D.Va. The young start-up. Still so full of potential and vigor. So ready to fight for her chance.

Before the referee’s hand could come down for a two-count, Pharah kicked up her feet and shoved the young woman off of her. The crowd shouted out, perhaps in relief to see Pharah still in it. She wasn’t out yet. And no matter how this would end, she wasn’t going to be the one to get pinned. “I don’t go down that easily!” she shouted, more to herself than to everyone else. But the Universe cheered with her. She could feel them fighting alongside her.

With that roar to the crowd, she picked up her chair and waited for D.Va to bounce to her feet. She tossed the chair at the younger woman, who immediately caught it.

But without missing a beat, Pharah flung herself in the air, catching as much height as she could before throwing a dropkick to the chair, crashing the steel into D.Va’s face.

“ _Come on_ little girl,” Zarya hissed.

“Cheering for D.Va?” Zenyatta eyed her, glancing to his side to look at the woman’s champion. “You think you have a better chance against D.va than you do Pharah, is that it?”

Zarya stiffened up immediately, hesitant to admit that she truly viewed anyone was a challenge, a threat to her title. “I just want to take on someone new,” she defended, knowing how weak of an excuse it sounded.

“Well you might just get that wish,” Hal-fred noted as D.va stumbled back up to her feet, still holding the chair and swinging it wildly at Pharah. She wasn’t letting this slip through her fingers. After all the things Widow had said about her, after everyone had seen her as nothing more than a child.

But Pharah had been born to this. Pharah dodged desperately, finally able to catch the chair mid-swing, using it to close the distance between her and D.Va and bring the younger wrestler in close. She landed three swift knees to the mid-section, leveling D.Va to the mat of the ring.

She was born to this. She was bred for this. D.Va could fight but Pharah knew she was _never_ going to give this up.

And that’s when she saw Widowmaker coming towards the ring, carrying a kendo stick.

The young woman looked at D.Va. The younger wrestler was down for the count. She looked like she could barely move. She looked over at Widow one more time, debating her options. She could go for the pin now, and risk yet another brutal assault. Or…

She cursed to herself as the crowded shouted. She couldn’t make out their words, hear heartbeat pounding in her ears. She slid under the ropes and ran for Widowmaker, taking the woman and quickly shoving her into the barricade. The kendo stick fell uselessly to the ground, with a triumphant thud. Pharah let out a flurry of punches. Just a little bit more and she could go back to the ring and…

“ONE!”

She dropped Widow, the other woman kicking back at her as she turned around.

“TWO!”

Mei had slide into the ring right at the correct moment, delivering a fast elbow to D.Va’s already aching body, before rolling her up for a quick pin.

The referee’s hand slid down, and Pharah tried to run. She tried to make a break for the ring, anything to break up the pin. Anything to keep Mei from taking what should have been _hers._

But that’s when Widow decided to deliver a punch of her own.

“THREE!”

The crowd screamed. D.Va blinked wearily as she struggled to sit up. Mei bounced to her feet, looking around the arena as if to take it all in, as if she wasn’t surprised at all by her win. As if she had been planning and watching the entire time.

And Pharah simply stared, laying out on the floor as Widowmaker skulked away from her. The match was over. The victor decided. And Pharah, yet again, too far away.

The two announcers gaped from the table before Zenyatta went to the microphone. “Incredible! Mei takes the win from nowhere! Though, Pharah would have had that, should she had ignored her grudge against Widowmaker.”

“Yeah but she didn’t,” Hal-fred scoffed. “Girl got too big for her britches and paid the price, if you ask me. What about you, Z?”

“Don’t call me that,” Zarya said, almost softly. She had taken to her feet, staring at the woman in the ring with nothing short of wonder and determination.

Mei was still looking around the arena, waving to her fans and bouncing excitedly. But when her eyes hit the announce table, she paused. With a timid smile, she waved at Zarya, before pointing to the belt. The woman nodded to herself. If she won this, she could do anything. She just needed the opportunities. And one finally came her way.

Zarya just scoffed again and shook her head, giving a thumbs-down at her new opponent. Mei seemed to shrink in on herself. “Pathetic. Looks like I’ll be keeping this belt after all, boys,” she laughed, picking up her championship belt and swinging it over her shoulder.

Zarya spared one more glance at Mei before walking out of the arena. Mei stood in the ring, surprisingly proud and sure as the referee held up her hand. Some of the crowd booed. Many of them cheered. Sure, it was unexpected, but Mei knew that she wasn’t one to underestimate. And she was determined to teach Zarya that lesson as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: All of Mei's merchandise shirts have some sort of pun on them. Usually ice/snow related.


	9. Ana: On Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ana works with her two best as they work out their muscles from the last episode. Pharah thinks a lot.

“Easy on the back, Fareeha,” Ana warned her daughter as she completed her fifth set. “I know what one too many steel chairs can do to you. You don’t want to push your luck by working the muscles so soon after injury.”

Pharah hissed to herself and grabbed her jug of water. Her coach was right, of course. She was always right. Mother knows best, after all. “That was hardly an injury,” she finally retorted knowing how weak it sounded.

But before Ana could argue any further, her other student approached the lateral press and tapped Pharah on the shoulder. “May I?” Winston asked with a polite smile as Pharah nodded to him and slid out of her spot.

Winston adjusted the weights and height on the seat accordingly as he readied himself for a set. Pharah stretched while she waited for her turn again. “You shouldn’t have focused so much on Amelie,” Ana then said, after a long pause.

“She’s not Amelie anymore,” Pharah retorted. They didn’t like to talk about it. They didn’t like to talk about Ana and Widowmaker’s old tag team. They didn’t like to talk about the betrayal or the final fight. They didn’t talk about the hesitation Ana had.

And they _never_ talked about the injury.

“Forget about her,” Ana then said again, turning her attention away from her daughter to focus on her Winston. The only champion of the two of them, Pharah reminded herself bitterly. “Go slower Winston. Honestly, you two. Always pushing. What would I do if you got yourself injured? How would I pay my bills?”

Winston chuckled to himself, slowing down as he lowered the weights. “Sorry, sorry. You could always go back to the ring, I guess?” He got off the set and rolled his shoulders back before motioning towards his training partner, “All yours.”

“Thanks, big guy.” Pharah said, watching as Ana followed the men’s champion over to the front bar for squats.

Ana pondered for a moment as she watched Winston load on weights. “No,” she finally said. “I’m not going back. You two are my future now.” Winston smiled. Pharah only stared forward, upping her weights a little more than usual.  

“I won’t let you down, ma’am!” Winston said with conviction, pulling the bar onto his shoulders with ease. He meant it. And Ana believed him. Pharah just pumped at the weights, wondering what her mother would think if she swore the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: Before Ana took on the mantle of Pharah's coach, Pharah fought in developmental as "Raindancer, the Canadian Thunderbird". This embraced her father's aboriginal Canadian culture and her own connection to the Métis people. Her costumes consisted of a totem-like bird helm, face-paint and intricate beading on her gear. This gimmick was dropped once Ana decided to coach her, taking on the side of her Egyptian heritage instead. 
> 
> That being said, a portion of all her merch sales still goes to supporting the Métis people.


End file.
